My first "real" job in my chosen career came to me during my last year in college. I started as an intern with a small web company, rode the rise-and-fall-of-the-dot-coms wave and, in March, ended up at the job I currently have.

I still miss the people I used to work with though, very much. There were 5 of us developers in the basement of a small office building, each at our desks, building web stuff and taking breaks every 20 minutes to either play foosball in the breakroom (old receptionists office) or Nerf basketball in between 3 of the desks. It never mattered if anyone didn't care to play because, once we got a game going, it was impossible to work anyway. We were a relatively eclectic mix in such a small group.

There was Geekboy, who would develop highly complex applications on the weekends for "fun" when he wasn't wearing robes and casting spells with 20-sided dice, or some shit. Over the years, Geekboy eventually went to a "hairstylist" instead of a barber, got contacts instead of glasses, and spent another $100 at Wal-mart on a wardrobe to last another 10 years. He emerged from his cocoon to meet a great woman, got married last summer, and they are doing wonderfully, even after the miscarriage of their twins a couple months ago (yeah, he's the guy I hugged even though I smelled so bad). He just started his own business selling his software to colleges for use in their online classes. He'll probably make his first million sometime next summer.

There was AssJack, whom I call that because I called him either, "asshole," or "jackass" daily, even though he is really a great guy. He's just one of those people that, given a line in the sand and a dare to cross it, will take a running fucking leap over that bastard, cackling all the way. After dropping out of CSU to go touring North Carolina with his Punk/Metal/NoIdeaHowToCategorizeMusic Band, he took out massive loans and got a tech degree. He was our best programmer, and is now also working as a partner in a successful business. He'll never make a million, but just bought a nice house, and is playing his guitar again.

There was the Rasta, a dredlocked, heavily accented, slow-moving dude from Trinidad. He didn't talk much, unless he was on the phone, but he could play foosball like a champ, and frequently told jokes that I'm sure are really, really funny, in the Caribbean� maybe. He rounded out quite the colorful group when we would walk into downtown Denver for lunch as he only wore the multi-colored knit caps, tunics, and baggy pants from his home. He knocked up a girlfriend and is spending nights cleaning offices in downtown Denver.

There was the CurryCobra, a 5'1" Indian girl from Madras, who would teach me bits and pieces from one of her native languages, and whom we teased incessantly. I could never imagine any female I know tolerating the kind of shit we said, and did, to her. That basement was worse than any hockey or football lockerroom I've ever been in, but she either ignored us, or gave as good as she got. We would use the Apu voice on her, and stuff her in the kitchen trashcan, but she still drove us for lunch everyday and would help you for hours if you were stuck on some code. Over the years she became like a little sister to us. We almost bar-brawled with some idiot redneck when he said some offensive things to her in the days following 9-11. We saw her marry her childhood friend and have a child that, while assured it was full-sized for an Indian baby, I'm sure I could've fit in my hat.

We all grew together like a family.

At least that's the best reason I can come up with for half the shit we would say to each other.

And for stuffing someone in a trashcan.

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I just received an e-vite from the Cobra to her little girl's first birthday party. There are 53 people on the list and, aside from Me, AssJack, and Geekboy, they all have names like, Venkatramankalyanaraman and Lakshmanan (I'm not kidding, I didn't even change 'em to protect anybody, so sorry Venkatramalallalalalalalamamallallamamamman, or whatever, but your shit is too damn funny to pass up).

I love parties at her place because all of her friends want to sit around and listen to me and the other white guys talk, just because they think it's freakin' hilarious.

"Ditoo heeyer vot he juss sed? He calt her a 'brown girl' and 'curry cobra,' thet isso funny!"

Then I impress them with my extensive knowledge of their language (literal translations) by:

Asking them if their mother knows that they only left the house to die today

Thanking them for chickens

Welcoming them to the desk

Telling their women to give me something (or for them to give me their women, I can never remember which)

Telling them to excuse me because there is a monkey in my pants

Calling them fat donkeys

At first, they seem kind of honored that I'm attempting their language but, after I butcher it repeatedly, they do their best impressions of Apu as well and ask me "for to not being the talking anymore."

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My life has gotten busy lately. I've barely had time to write in this diary, let alone read any of them (although I have managed to stay current with my absolute favorites, you know who you are).

Things are good with the Girl, although school just started for her again, and I'm afraid that I'll be saying goodbye to her attention span for another 4 months. What this will do to our efforts at this relationship remains to be seen. Meh, no more whining. I said I wouldn't and I won't. I'm done whining.

I wanted to tell you I'm writing a book.

Seriously, no shit. A real book. I figure it's a book if it's over 3 pages, right? Hm. Seven pages? Fuck it, I'm calling it a book just so I can call myself a writer and smoke a pipe and wear tweed and/or something Autumnal.

It'll be funny at the very least. My effort that is, if not the book.

While my imagination can get me into bed with a blonde, a redhead, and Milla Jovovich simultaneously, it can't, for the life of me, come up with a good fictional story, so I've decided it would be easiest to write about my life. I figure I'll just start writing down stories from my life, as many as I can remember, and then I'll string them together, in order, later. Then, I'll probably edit parts of it so that, if it ever does get published, no one will ever know stupid shit like the fact that I used to pop the zits on my brother's back or that I told my High School Guidance Counselor, in all seriousness, that, when I grew up, I wanted to be a Ninja, or at least some sort of professional assassin.

Crap� probably shouldn't write that stuff in here then, eh? Oh well.

Cheezus, "my memoirs"� Seeing it written out makes it sound terribly gay. Come to think of it, "gay" is probably an incredibly good thing, as two of my favorite authors are homosexual dudes that published memoirs, and both are bestsellers.

I'll probably throw some stories and shit in here, that will also show up in the book, a la Trance-baby. In fact, that may be all I write in here for awhile, at least until something cool happens in my life.

Things are busy, but uneventful, although I am turning 30 soon and planning on freaking-the-ever-livin-ever-lovin-fuck out.

I guess we'll see if it'll be a story worth telling.

Wish me luck.